


Smoked

by Dawn (sunrize83)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 07:51:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16512260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrize83/pseuds/Dawn
Summary: Filling in the Brand X blanks through Mulder and Scully's eyes.





	Smoked

**Author's Note:**

> Written with Sally Bahnsen.

County Morgue  
12:28 p.m. 

******************  
Scully  
******************  
  


How can the simple echo of shoes on tile provoke such a  
wide range of emotion in me? 

I’m standing in front of a lung unlike any I’ve ever  
witnessed – and believe me, I’ve witnessed quite a few –  
carefully dissecting the tissue to reveal hundreds of fat,  
wriggling larvae. I divide my focus between trying to make  
sense of the gruesome sight and Skinner’s somewhat nerve-  
wracking presence just over my right shoulder. Until the  
measured tapping of my partner’s footsteps steals my  
attention as adroitly as Charlie used to steal second base  
and initiates a cascade of feelings. 

Relief -- that his return means I’m no longer alone with  
Skinner, whose previous duplicity still troubles me in spite  
of Mulder’s reassurances. 

Irritation -- that he’s ditched me once again to carry out his  
own agenda, giving only a cryptic explanation for his  
whereabouts. 

Warmth, affection, and a slight tingling that usually ends  
with a goofy grin plastered on my face. It’s been that way  
ever since Mulder recovered from his illness last fall, but  
even more so since New Year’s Eve, when we finally  
stopped dancing around the truth and admitted our feelings  
for each other. Still aware of Skinner, I carefully squash the  
smile that tries to bubble up. 

“Hi Mulder. Where’ve you been?” 

There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Cool, professional, with  
no hint of the way I’d really like to greet him. Mulder is  
right, we *can* keep our personal relationship separate  
from the work. I’m so busy admiring my self-control I only  
vaguely hear Mulder say something about trying to get a  
look at Morley’s records. 

“Take a look at this,” I tell him, indicating the lung with a  
tilt of my head. 

Mulder’s eyes skitter briefly over the organ and he makes a  
face, circling around to perch on a gurney out of the line of  
sight. I can’t help the small upward tilt to the corners of my  
mouth. This man has faced down serial killers, flukemen,  
and a regenerating mutant, yet an autopsy never fails to  
turn his stomach. 

“They are the larval stage of the tobacco beetle, Mulder,” I  
tell him, since he’s opted out of a closer look. “And  
somehow they’ve wound up nesting in Thomas Gastall’s  
lungs.” 

Mulder grimaces, and the thought that he’s looking rather  
peaked, even for a man less than comfortable in an autopsy  
bay, flutters across my mind. Skinner’s gruff voice distracts  
me from my observation. 

“But what doesn’t make any sense is why Scobie’s lungs  
didn’t show this same condition,” he says, moving around  
to my left and pinning me with the intensity of his gaze. 

I’m deep into a description of larvae pupating inside the  
lungs until mature when I hear the first, husky rasp as  
Mulder clears his throat. Nearly inaudible, but it pierces my  
rational scientific bubble. Suddenly my mouth is on  
autopilot while my ears zero in on the sound of Mulder’s  
breathing like a satellite dish searching for a vital  
transmission. Skinner, oblivious to all but the case, frowns  
at my explanation. 

“That explains the condition of the face and throat. Only  
how…” 

Skinner’s voice fades to an insignificant drone, the words  
indistinguishable over the pounding of my heart. No longer  
muted, Mulder is coughing – make that hacking – into his  
fist in a futile attempt to muffle the sound. The spasms  
subside and he slowly pulls his hand back from his lips,  
then goes very still as he stares blankly at the palm. 

“Mulder?” 

I can’t keep the edge of fear from my voice and my feet are  
moving even before he lifts his head. Skinner is at my side,  
his long legs actually working to keep up with mine as I  
stride rapidly over and seize Mulder’s wrist, swiveling the  
hand outward. 

Crimson, shocking in its brilliance, splatters Mulder’s palm  
and flecks his lower lip. 

Blood. 

Ice envelops my body from head to toe and for a long  
moment I can only stare, horrified, first at Mulder’s palm  
and then into his wide-eyed face. His panic face, a corner  
of my mind gibbers hysterically, but I’m not laughing. 

A tremor runs through the hand and Mulder tugs it from my  
grasp, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief. He’s  
trying hard to appear impassive but I recognize fear  
simmering just beneath that cool exterior. The faintest  
trembling of his fingers, the expressionless cast of his  
features, and the rigid spine all betray him. 

I turn to Skinner, a little surprised and quite gratified to see  
my alarm mirrored on his face. “Call 911,” I tell him  
tersely, unapologetic for reversing our roles. 

He simply nods, his cell phone appearing in his hand before  
Mulder’s vehement protest freezes his fingers. 

“NO!” 

I jerk my eyes from Skinner and give Mulder the look I  
reserve for his most outlandish theories. The one that says  
he can’t possibly expect me to believe him. 

“Mulder, you’ve obviously been infected and need  
immediate medical attention,” I tell him firmly. “Now let  
the A.D. call for an ambulance.” 

“Scully, I’ll go to the hospital, just not in an ambulance,”  
Mulder replies with that mulish tone to his voice. He  
punctuates the refusal with another jagged cough. 

“Listen to yourself! You’re respiratory tract is being  
compromised as we speak. You’ve brought up blood, for  
heaven’s sake! Sir, call for an ambulance,” I demand. I’m  
in no mood to get into a pissing contest with Mulder over  
his health. 

“I said no, Scully! There’s no reason to make a scene and  
that’s exactly what will happen” – he coughs – “if you roll  
me out of here on a gurney!” More hacking and now his  
breathing is more effortful, a wheezing in his chest. “I’m  
perfectly capable of…of…” 

The air catches in his throat and he sags forward, overcome  
by violent, wracking spasms as fresh blood splashes the  
floor between his feet. His eyes, the only spot of color in  
his face, latch desperately onto mine for an instant before  
turning dull, lids fluttering. 

“Mulder? Mulder!” I cry out, lunging for him as he begins  
to slide bonelessly to the right. 

Skinner is there first, catching Mulder under the armpits  
and lowering him gently to the floor. I vaguely hear him  
barking orders for an ambulance into the phone, invoking  
the powerful call for an officer down, sure to get immediate  
results. It registers only on the most peripheral level, my  
senses attuned to the man sprawled on the tile. My eyes see  
only his wan, still face. My ears hear nothing but the rattle  
of his labored breathing. 

“Mulder? Don’t do this to me,” I say sternly as I loosen his  
tie and undo his shirt buttons with clumsy fingers. “You’ve  
already ditched me once today so you damn well better stay  
with me now.” I reclaim his wrist to check his pulse,  
dismayed by the results. 

A couple weak coughs and he moans softly. Heedless of  
Skinner, I lean over until my face is just inches from  
Mulder’s and push the hair back from his brow, letting my  
fingers brush his scalp the way I know he loves. 

“I know you can hear me, Mulder. Come on, show me.” 

Even down here I can detect the wail of sirens – they must  
be very close. Mulder coughs, whimpers, and his eyelids  
open a crack to reveal a glimpse of hazel. His lips move but  
what comes out is little more than a breathy jumble of  
vowels. I lean closer, my lips nearly touching his ear. 

“I didn’t quite get that, G-man. Try again.” 

Skinner stands, awkwardly rubbing his palms against the  
legs of his pants. “Ambulance must be here. I’ll send them  
down.” 

I don’t even bother nodding, just maintain eye contact with  
Mulder as he fights to make me understand.  
“Can’t…breathe,” he puffs, and for the first time I notice  
the bluish cast to his lips. 

My stomach twists painfully but I put on my doctor face. “I  
know, partner. EMTs are on their way in and we’ll fix you  
up with some oxygen. Just hold on a little longer for me.” 

It breaks my heart to see how hard he fights to obey me.  
His eyes hold mine as if he can draw strength through the  
simple fusion and his lips move again, this time in a pattern  
so familiar I don’t need to hear. 

“Scully.” 

A volley of voices, the clatter of equipment, and Skinner  
bursts into the room with the EMTs on his heels. Giving  
Mulder’s hand a reassuring squeeze, I move back just  
enough to allow them to work. 

“I’m Dr. Scully. Agent Mulder is suffering from acute  
respiratory failure and needs O2, stat,” I tell them crisply as  
I struggle not to hover. “Respiration is shallow, pulse weak  
and thready.” 

“How long ago was the onset?” the older of the pair, a  
woman of about thirty with dark, cropped hair, asks as her  
partner dons a stethoscope and listens to Mulder’s chest,  
then starts an I.V. 

“Approximately ten minutes.” 

“Is Agent Mulder allergic to anything? Sounds like it could  
be acute anaphylactic shock,” she remarks, slipping an  
oxygen mask over his nose and mouth after checking his  
pupils. “Agent Mulder, can you hear me? Don’t talk, just  
squeeze my hand.” 

“It isn’t an allergic reaction, it’s a pulmonary infection of  
sorts,” I answer, relieved when I see Mulder’s fingers  
tighten briefly. 

The second paramedic, who looks more like a high school  
football player to my critical gaze, stares at me quizzically.  
“An infection? You mean like pneumonia? His lungs do  
sound terribly congested, but…” 

“Let’s just get him to Asheford Medical, Joey,” the woman  
says briskly. “He’s stable enough to transport, they can sort  
it all out there.” 

They carefully shift Mulder onto the gurney, but his arms  
begin to flail. Joey grabs for his wrists, pinning them to the  
mattress. 

“Take it easy, Agent Mulder. You don’t want to knock out  
that I.V. or I’ll have to stick you all over again,” he warns  
good-naturedly. 

I notice Mulder’s head moving, as if searching for  
something. Understanding, I insert myself next to his head,  
gently displacing the woman, whose nametag reads  
Carolyn. Mulder quiets immediately, and though his eyes  
are huge with fright I’m pleased to see that his lips are no  
longer blue. He tries to tug away the mask but Carolyn  
snags his hand. 

“Ah, ah, ah. You need that to stay put,” she tells him  
firmly. 

I have to blink back tears when, sick as he is, Mulder rolls  
his eyes. He tries to speak but only succeeds in bringing on  
another round of coughs, more blood flecking his lips and  
the mask. Carolyn goes into high gear, lifting the side rail  
and locking it in place. 

“Come on, we need to move him. Now!” 

Mulder’s stubborn hand slips through the bars and clutches  
mine, effectively stopping her. His lips move and this time  
I both see and hear the plea. 

“Stay.” 

For just a moment, I’m the one who can’t speak. When I do  
find my voice it’s wispy with emotion. “Don’t worry,  
partner. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Skinner calls as I follow  
Mulder and two glaring EMTs into the elevator. 

They might not be happy about my company but no one  
says anything as I climb into the back of the ambulance  
with Mulder and Joey. 

A very wise decision.  
  


******************  
Mulder  
******************  
  


Well, that was a waste of time. I trot down the stairs to  
meet up with Scully. The sound of my footfalls echo off  
the sterile walls, punctuating my anger and frustration. I  
*know* the beetles are responsible for the deaths of Scobie  
and Gastall. I *know* that Morely Tobacco is involved.  
But until I can come up with some hard evidence, the likes  
of Voss and that smarmy bastard Brimley, will continue to  
hide behind big time corporate lawyers, conducting their  
tests on innocent people and getting away with it. 

Scully should be finished with the autopsy by now. I hope  
her time has been more productive than mine. 

I hit the bottom step the same time as my chest is hit with  
an untimely breathlessness. I puff and pant like a two-year-  
old attempting to blow the candles out on a birthday cake.  
I cast an accusing glance up the two flights of stairs I've  
just jogged down, trying to figure out why my short spurt  
of exercise would evoke this kind of reaction. 

I pause, and clasp on to the banister, alarmed that my  
breathlessness seems to be getting worse. I can feel my  
lungs straining but nothing is getting in. I wouldn't say I  
am panicking, not yet, but it's not far away. My initial  
thought is to run back upstairs, head out into the open air  
where an unending supply of oxygen is mine for the taking.  
But my legs are trembling and I'm beginning to feel  
decidedly lightheaded. The hallway begins to shift like an  
out of focus computer image, each individual pixel visible  
to the naked eye. 

My knees give way and my butt hits the bottom step. I  
continue to suck in deep lungfuls of nothing. What the hell  
is wrong with me? Thoughts of asthma and heart attacks  
flit through my mind. A scratchy, tickling feeling quivers  
deep in my throat. My chest spasms and a series of  
hacking coughs wrack my body. I find out the hard way  
just how difficult it is to cough when your body is  
incapable of drawing air. I wouldn't recommend it. 

Something shifts. A glorious path is cleared and I suck  
greedily as air begins to fill my lungs. I heave and gasp  
like a drowning man that has just burst through the surface  
of a watery grave. I sit until my breathing returns to  
normal and my legs quit trembling, then haul myself to my  
feet, using the railing as leverage. My head throbs and my  
vision dances, but it only lasts a few seconds. 

Unbidden images of Scobie and Gastall scroll through my  
mind like credits in a movie. My skin crawls along my  
spine and over my scalp as I recall the condition of the  
bodies; the decimated faces, the presence of the tobacco  
beetles at both crime scenes. The glass -- half full of  
bloody water, the beetle lying belly up at the bottom -- and  
the handful of squirming bugs surrounding Thomas Gastall. 

My stomach does a slow roll and I swallow back the rising  
nausea. Somewhere in the hidden recesses of my mind a  
little voice is warning me and I don't like the implications  
of what it is has to say. I refuse to listen to it. I don't want  
to know. 

I straighten my jacket and dust off my pants then head  
purposefully down the hallway to the autopsy lab, hopeful  
that Scully has some answers for me. 

When I enter the room, Scully is huddled over the latest  
victim. Skinner is peering over her shoulder. 

"Hey, Mulder. Where have you been?" Her tone is light  
and conversational. I wonder irrelevantly how she is able  
to condition herself to be so casual while poised over a  
dead body. 

I explain where I've been and she seems satisfied with what  
I tell her, or perhaps her priority is directed at what she has  
to show me. 

"Well, take a look at this." She indicates the body as if  
offering me a banquet. 

I take a quick look. Jeezus! My stomach perches itself on  
the edge of a precipice and prepares to jump. I stifle the  
urge to cough and vomit and move myself to a nice  
secluded, “body free” corner. I spy an empty gurney that  
looks mighty inviting and head towards it. 

Scully starts her running commentary on the gory details of  
Thomas Gastall's death. Under normal circumstances I  
would love to hear all the finer points of bug infestations  
and their breeding habits within the human lung. Now is  
not normal. In fact I feel far from normal. 

My concentration is fully engaged in controlling the  
irritating tickle in my chest. A small cough escapes, but the  
sound is muffled by my fist, held tightly against my mouth.  
It is only a temporary measure. 

I hear the deep rumble of Skinner's voice, the soft, earnest  
reply of my partner. The words “larvae” and “pupate”  
hover in the air but the rest is lost as my body is seized in  
another spasm of coughing. I hack and hack until  
something is expelled into the palm of my hand. 

I pull my hand from my mouth and stare in morbid  
fascination at the bright red splotch that is smeared across  
my skin. Fascination quickly turns into stunned horror as  
the full ramifications of what I am looking at hit me. 

Scully stands beside me, I wasn't even aware she had  
moved. She pulls at my hand, turning it to face her. My  
eyes lock with hers and I know my expression mirrors her  
own. Unadulterated fear. 

I snatch my hand back. With trembling fingers I fumble in  
my pocket for a handkerchief. I wipe the blood from my  
palm and the expression from my face. 

"Call 911." Her fear has joined hands with mine and  
ducked for cover. She has armed herself in a suit of  
professionalism. Entered her comfort zone. Gone is Dana  
Katherine Scully, friend and lover of Fox William Mulder.  
In her place is Dr Scully, FBI agent, forensic pathologist  
and of late, taking in the last seven years, part time medical  
practitioner. 

Skinner has his cell phone out, finger poised, ready to  
punch in the magic numbers, when I voice my protest. 

"No!" 

Scully turns to me, her expression incredulous. Not a new  
thing for Scully when dealing with me. 

"Mulder, you've obviously been infected and need medical  
help." Her features are set, her tone firm, indicating there  
is no room for negotiation in her instructions. 

"Now let the A.D. call for an ambulance." 

"Scully, I'll go to the hospital, just not in an ambulance."  
My case loses ground though when I end my statement  
with a cough. 

That's all the encouragement Scully needs. She starts  
quoting chapter and verse all the reasons why I *need* to  
travel to hospital by ambulance. 

I pay little heed to her warnings and counter her attack with  
one of my own. I am perfectly capable of walking, and I  
refuse to be the main topic of mortician gossip for the next  
month. No way, Jose`. 

I'm almost all the way through my argument when another  
round of choked coughing cuts me off. 

This is the worst one yet. Not only do my lungs feel like  
they are being squeezed in a vise, but there seems to be  
something caught in the back of my throat. My panicked  
mind immediately turns to the beetles. My chest crackles  
with each new cough, my lungs are being sliced by razor  
blades. 

Blood sprays from my mouth decorating the floor between  
my feet with bright crimson dots. Now I'm scared. No  
more Mr. Tough Guy. I search out my partner, desperate  
for some reassurance. I see her, but she's bathed in a  
shimmering mass of shapeless color. I feel myself begin to  
slide sideways, completely out of control. Then... 

"Mulder don't do this to me." I search through my mind.  
What have I done now? Who the hell is sitting on my  
chest? Why am I lying on the floor? I feel frantic, busy  
hands fiddling with my tie, my button. Is that supposed to  
help me breathe? Just get that bastard off my chest, Scully.  
GET HIM OFF! 

What's that about ditching? I didn't. God, it hurts. Please,  
Scully, help me. 

Soothing fingers stroke across my brow. I gasp for breath.  
It makes me cough. 

"I know you can hear me Mulder. Come on, show me," 

Yes Scully. I hear you! Can you hear me? Help me. I  
can't breathe. Something in my throat. My chest hurts. I  
force an eye open. Maybe if I look at her she'll understand.  
Know what to do. Silent communication is not working  
today. I'M SUFFOCATING, SCULLY! I tell her over and  
over. Make it stop. 

I feel her warm breath against my ear. 

"I didn't quite get that, G-man. Try again." 

I find her eyes. I draw on all my energy and try to make  
myself heard. 

"Can't...breathe." 

For one fleeting second she lets her defenses down and I  
see the devastation on her face. She recovers quickly,  
doing her best, as always to comfort me, reassure me. 

"I know partner. EMTs are on their way in and we'll fix  
you up with some oxygen. Just hold on a little longer, for  
me." 

Anything for you Scully. I never want to hurt you. I see  
the pain in her eyes and I know I am failing dismally. 

"Scully." I'm sorry. 

Her hand tightens around mine then she's gone. Mild  
panic grips me. I search the room for her. I recognize her  
legs, she's still by me but now there is a whole bunch of  
other people here. I hear the familiar clatter of a gurney  
being rolled in. Voices. I'm not sure what they are saying.  
I pick out Scully's determined manner, issuing orders and  
instructions to the new comers. 

A mask is slipped over my face. The cool hiss of oxygen  
fills my mouth and nostrils. I suck greedily at it, but it's  
still a fight to get any in. Don't they realize there's plenty  
of air available, I just can't get my lungs to breathe it ? 

The cold surface of a stethoscope skates across my chest.  
The jab of a needle. A very large needle. Feels like a steel  
spike in my arm. They don't know what's wrong with me.  
Only Scully knows. The bugs are growing in my lungs.  
Where is she? 

The paramedics are tossing conventional words around.  
Pneumonia, infection. Congestion. NO! No, No. None of  
those, it's nothing you've ever seen before. 

Strong hands lift me under my arms, under my feet and  
place me on a gurney. Strangers' hands. Where's Scully?  
God, I still can't breathe. Scully! It's not pneumonia. Tell  
them. It's the tobacco beetles. They won't know how what  
to look for. How to treat me. 

I try to voice my fears, but any sound I make is muffled  
under the oxygen mask. Gotta get it off. I make a grab at it  
but someone pounces on my hands, pushing my wrists into  
the mattress. 

NOOOOO! 

I move my head, trying to shake off the mask, searching for  
Scully. I need her with me. 

One more shake of my head and this time Scully is right in  
front of me. King Kong has released my wrists. I bring a  
hand up to the mask but it's nabbed and back by my side  
before I get the chance. 

The paramedic is saying something to me. Speaking to me  
like a child. I roll my eyes. They have this compulsive  
behavior pattern of treating sick people like children or  
idiots. 

"Scu..." More coughing. Shit. I groan. I want to cry. It  
hurts so damn much. I gag and another spray of blood  
coats the oxygen mask. 

I hear the paramedic barking orders. The side rail is lifted.  
Scully is still by the gurney. I quickly snake my arm  
between the bars and latch onto her hand. Don't go. Don't  
leave me. 

"Stay." I gasp out. 

"Don't worry partner. I'm not going anywhere." 

Thank God.  
  


Asheford Medical Center  
1:44 p.m.  
  


******************  
Mulder  
******************  
  


"...anaphylactic shock. Is he allergic to any foods?" 

"No. Listen to..." 

"Is he on medication? Allergic to any drugs?" 

"No, he..." 

Does he suffer from asthma?" 

"No, Doctor..." 

"Has he come in contact with any chemicals? Insects?  
Such as..." 

"DR KLEIN! STOP! He is not suffering from  
anaphylactic shock. Nor has he been exposed to toxic  
chemicals, at least not in the way you are suggesting.  
Please, just hear me out..." 

I gasp. A band tightens around my chest. Scully's voice  
disappears, lost among the voices that surround me. A  
male voice rises above the din of activity. I hear words,  
commands. My head swims as I fight to draw air. 

"Agent Scully, please step back or I will have to ask you to  
leave." The man. 

No, Scully. Stay. I call her name, but there's no sound. I  
can't breathe. Scully! 

"...and a portable X-ray. Come on people I want action,  
here!" 

"Heart rate is climbing. Respiration..." Their voices make  
no sense. My chest aches with the effort of breathing, my  
head throbs. Where's Scully? I try to find her. No energy.  
Scully! Help me. 

"Okay, I want 5mgs of epinephrine..." In between my own  
harsh gasping I hear the doctor issuing orders. 

"Mr. Mulder. Try to relax, we're going to give you  
something to help you breathe." A woman. Not Scully. I  
open my eyes. Bright lights, faces. No Scully. I move my  
hand but nothing happens, it's made of lead. 

"Heart rate's still up." 

A spasm of coughing seizes me. More blood sprays from  
my mouth, dribbles down my chin. The oxygen mask is  
removed. I hear my own wheezing. My chest is on fire. 

"Damn it. What the hell is wrong with this guy? Where's  
that medication? Hold him still while..." 

Hands, on my arms, my legs. Someone holding my  
shoulders. The mask is back on my face. 

I gasp. Again and again. Then... air. A little at first. Then  
more. I can breathe. My body starts trembling. I'm so  
cold. 

"Mulder?" Scully. 

I stare at her. She's here. 

"Mulder, listen to me. The doctor's given you something to  
open your airway. It's only a temporary measure till we  
figure out how to treat you, but it should help you breathe a  
little better. Do you understand what I'm telling you?" 

She takes my hand. I feel her thumb caressing my palm  
and I give her hand a little squeeze and nod my head. 

"We're going to get some pictures of your chest, we need to  
know more about what we're dealing with. I want to go  
and speak with Dr Klein, he's running with a theory of..."  
She sighs. "He thinks you've been exposed to some kind of  
toxic chemical..." 

No! No don't go. I try to tell her with my eyes. 

"...I won't go far. Right outside, okay?" 

"Agent Scully?" A nurse is standing by Scully. "We're  
ready to do the X-rays now." 

Scully smiles at me. She pulls my hand to her lips and  
lightly kisses my knuckles. "I'll be right back, partner."  
Her eyes leave my face and she gives the nurse a  
meaningful look. 

"He'll be fine, honey, we'll take good care of him." 

The nurse sets up the X-ray. It's cold. I'm cold. My teeth  
start chattering. Makes it hard to breathe. 

"We'll just be few minutes Mr. Mulder, then we'll get you  
nice and warm." 

My shirt is gone. The pictures are taken. I stare at the  
roof. I'm scared. I have bugs in my lungs. Oh, god. Bugs.  
Growing in my lungs. 

My stomach heaves. 

"He's vomiting! I need help here!" Hands grip my body  
and roll me onto my side. Someone has my head, the  
oxygen mask is whipped away. It hurts. My stomach, my  
chest, my throat. Hot bile fills my mouth. I spit. And spit.  
A bowl is under my chin. I spit again. The retching stops.  
I can't move. I don't have to. Gentle hands lower me onto  
my back. A wet cloth wipes the inside of my mouth and  
around my chin. A hand brushes across my forehead. Not  
Scully. Someone else. 

"You better now, honey? " The nurse. I open my eyes. 

"We're all done with the X-rays. Let's get you settled  
somewhere more comfortable. We've still got a few more  
tests to run." I feel elastic tugging on my hair. Oxygen  
mask. No, not this time. Plastic tubes in my nose.  
Cannula. I shiver, harder this time. 

"Cold." Did she hear me? I'm so cold. 

A blanket is placed over my body, the edges tucked under  
my hips and feet, then another. I drink in its warmth. A  
heaviness descends on me and I sink into oblivion, too  
exhausted to resist.  
  


*****************  
Scully  
*****************  
  


The frenzy of activity surrounding Mulder has abated and  
I’m actually able to resume my post at his side. Thanks to a  
combination of oxygen and bronchodilators, his breathing  
has eased from frantic to merely labored. Of course, there’s  
nothing “mere” about the way his chest works to pull air  
into lungs whose capacity is so dramatically reduced. He’s  
learned to refrain from speech, conserving precious oxygen  
and energy, but his expressive eyes, dark with exhaustion,  
follow my every movement. It’s as if I’m the only tether  
grounding him, preventing his fear from spiraling out of  
control. 

It didn’t help that during the initial flurry of carefully  
controlled chaos that characterizes an ER I’d been forced to  
abandon Mulder to engage in a battle of wills. My  
opponent? An overly zealous resident who possesses even  
less of an appreciation for extreme possibilities than I. 

Imagine that. 

This kid took one look at Mulder’s gasps for breath  
intermingled with violent coughing spells that produced  
bloody sputum, and came up with a preliminary diagnosis  
of exposure to a toxic substance. Not so far off, really,  
except that the wet behind the ears Dr. Klein insisted the  
toxin must be chemical in nature – something, most likely  
an inhalant, so caustic that it had essentially burned  
Mulder’s bronchial passages and caused massive tissue  
damage and edema. 

Naturally, I immediately reneged on my promise to be a  
good little observer and stay out of the way. As a nurse  
rolled in the portable X-ray equipment I pulled Klein aside  
and explained in detail exactly what kind of toxic exposure  
he had on his hands, including my fledgling theory that the  
victims somehow inhaled the beetles’ eggs. Klein, in  
return, looked at me…well…the way people usually look at  
Mulder after he’s just spouted one of his outrageous  
theories. Two thoughts chased each other through my head  
in that instant: 

*Oh my god, another seven years with this man and I'll be  
watching movies that aren’t mine and renewing my  
MUFON membership.* 

And: 

*How many times has Mulder wished he could slap that  
look off my face?* 

“Agent Scully, while I would never dispute the role of  
tobacco smoke in lung cancer, I hardly think it could  
transmit mutant tobacco larvae into your partner’s lungs,”  
Klein told me condescendingly. “You’re understandably  
distraught and lacking objectivity, so if you’ll just stand  
back and let us do our jobs…” 

Dr. Klein owes Walter Skinner his life. Before I could pull  
out my gun and shoot the sanctimonious little bastard,  
Skinner walked in bearing a specimen jar that contained a  
section of Thomas Gastall’s lung and its uninvited guests.  
That, coupled with the chest films, left Klein green around  
the gills and hollering for a pulmonary specialist. 

More tests, some stopgap measures to ease Mulder’s  
immediate distress, and now we wait. 

With Skinner off calling the Bureau for a progress report  
and Mulder relatively stable, I relegate both Agent Scully  
and Dr. Scully to a distant corner of my mind and look at  
my partner through the eyes of the woman who loves him.  
With my alter egos, unfortunately, goes my professional  
detachment, and the rapid deterioration of his appearance  
hits me like a physical blow. 

Skin too pale, except for the bruised shadows beneath his  
eyes; pain etched in fine lines across his brow and around  
his mouth; and perhaps worst of all, his body sprawled  
limply on the bed. No whining about the I.V. and the  
oxygen mask, no snide remarks about hospitals in general  
and this one in particular, no protestations that he’s fine and  
we’re overreacting. Each shuddering, inadequate breath  
taps his strength, and it’s not hard to see the reserves are  
running dangerously low. 

I slide my right hip onto the mattress and enfold Mulder’s  
hand between mine. He watches me solemnly as my fingers  
flirt with his. Mulder has beautiful hands, with long,  
elegant fingers much better suited to a pianist or a surgeon  
than a FBI agent. I’m tracing the pad of my index finger  
over the ridge of his knuckles, trying to ignore the bluish  
tint to his nail beds, when he musters a rough whisper. 

“What’s…up…doc?” 

He’s scared. Seven years and a plethora of terrifying  
situations have given me ample chances to learn that  
Mulder deflects fear with humor. I know his “panic face,”  
in all its disguises. 

“Doctor McManus is checking the second set of chest  
films. Barring complications he’s recommending deep  
suctioning,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light and  
optimistic. “You remember what I described?” He was in  
and out during McManus’s consultation so I figure I’d  
better ask. 

Mulder rolls his eyes. “The…crazy straw,” he rasps. 

He opens his mouth to continue, but a succession of jagged  
coughs slips out instead. I can only stand by, helplessly  
stroking his sweaty brow until the spasms ease up. Each of  
these episodes takes a little more out of him -- he’s limp  
and passive as I use a cool cloth to wipe perspiration and  
blood from his face, eyes at half-mast. I turn to rinse the  
cloth, struggling to maintain composure. A break in the  
relentless rhythm of Mulder’s breathing steals my attention  
and I freeze, spinning around when it is repeated, like a  
record skipping a groove. 

“Mulder?” 

I don’t mean to speak his name as an accusation, but alarm  
seizes control of my vocal chords. Mulder jerks in  
response, hazel eyes flying wide open for a moment before  
relaxing. I lay an apologetic hand on the crown of his head  
and weave my fingers through his hair. 

“Sorry, I… Just stay with me, all right?” I stammer lamely. 

His gaze is that of a marathon runner miles from the finish  
line. “Tired.” 

My throat tightens. “I know you are, love. I know you are.” 

Sick as he is, his eyes widen and one corner of his mouth  
turns up. Unlike Mulder, who can be practically effusive  
with sentiment, it doesn’t roll easily off my tongue. Seeing  
the power in that simple endearment, the rekindled spark in  
his gaze, I silently vow to do a better job of reminding this  
man of his place in my life. 

“Agent Mulder, Dr. Scully.” 

Dr. McManus hovers in the doorway a moment before  
entering. One look at his grave face and I know the news  
isn’t good. Dr. Scully steps forward, elbowing Dana  
gracelessly out of the way. 

“Dr. McManus, did you look at the films?” 

McManus’s eyes graze Mulder and he tilts his head toward  
a lightbox mounted on the wall. I turn, flash Mulder a  
reassuring smile, and follow, cringing internally as the  
doctor snaps two views of Mulder’s lungs into place. The  
white patches, signaling larval infestation, have grown and  
spread in the hour between X-rays. As if to confirm the  
diagnosis, Mulder begins to cough. 

“We need to get him upstairs right away,” McManus says,  
terse but not unsympathetic. “If we don’t clear his airways  
soon he’s going to go into pulmonary failure.” 

“You have to anesthetize him for the procedure, don’t  
you?” I ask quietly. “Isn’t that dangerous? Won’t it depress  
his respiratory system further?” 

“We’ll use light sedation and monitor him carefully,”  
McManus replies, still staring at the X-rays. “We really  
don’t have an alternative. He’s weakening rapidly, and his  
pulse ox is dangerously low.” He sighs. “Would you like  
me to talk to him?” 

I shake my head. “I’ve already explained the procedure. I’ll  
tell him we’re going ahead with it.” 

McManus finally abandons the x-rays to meet my gaze. “A  
nurse will be right in with the sedative. We’ll take him up  
as soon as he’s under.” 

I draw myself up to my full height and square my  
shoulders, trying to look as intimidating as a petite redhead  
can manage. After growing up with two brothers (one of  
them a bully, and I’ll bet you can guess which) and joining  
the FBI, I’ve become surprisingly good at it. 

“I want to observe.” 

I can see him weighing his options – say no and piss off the  
federal agent or say yes and go against his professional  
judgement. In the end he caves to pressure with a reluctant  
tip of his head. 

“Very well. You can follow him up. One of the nurses will  
get you a pair of scrubs.” 

I tell him thank you, which he acknowledges with a wave  
of his hand, and walk back over to Mulder. One look at his  
face tells me that he already knows what I’m going to say. 

“This…really…sucks,” he croaks. “Right?” 

“Big time,” I confirm, and even manage a ghost of a grin. 

On cue, a nurse enters with a stainless steel tray and a no  
nonsense smile. “I’ve got something to guarantee you’ll  
sleep through the procedure, Agent Mulder,” she says,  
swabbing the rubber port on his I.V. and uncapping a  
syringe. 

Mulder’s hand latches onto mine in a death grip and there’s  
no camouflaging the fright in his suddenly rigid posture. I  
instinctively recognize the source of his panic and hasten to  
reassure him. 

“I’ll be right there the whole time, Mulder. You wouldn’t  
want to be conscious for this, it’s worse than being  
intubated, and you *know* how you feel about that,” I  
warn him, watching as the nurse injects what is probably  
Versed into the line. “Trust me, you’ll be awake in no time  
and breathing much easier.” 

In his weakened condition, the drug hits him like a truck,  
and within seconds his eyes are glassy and drooping shut. I  
stroke my thumb soothingly over the back of his hand as  
his fingers turn slack and pliant. He mutters something just  
as he slips into sleep, and between the sandpaper voice and  
a tongue thick with drugs it takes me a moment to decipher  
and another to match it with my plea for his trust. I bite my  
lip and blink hard. 

“Only you.”  
  


******************  
Mulder  
******************  
  


I watch Scully pace. Not a nervous, erratic stride. Her  
movements are slow, cautious. She checks my IV, my  
chart, the heart monitor. I follow her with my eyes. She is  
no longer hiding behind her professional facade. The  
worry lines are set around her eyes. I know she's scared.  
It's bad this time. I'm amazed I'm still alive. How long did  
it take for those other people to die? How long will it take  
for me...I don't want to go there. 

Scully stops her restless movements and sits on the edge of  
my bed. She picks up my hand and starts caressing it,  
playing with my fingers. Her brow is locked in a perpetual  
frown. What is she thinking as she toys with my hand? 

"What's...up...doc.?" 

I listen to Scully as she explains what is in store for me.  
Deep suctioning. 

"The...crazy...straw." Three little words and it exhausts me  
to say them. A spasm of coughing grips me. I close my  
eyes and wait for it to stop. God, my chest feels as if it  
might explode. I think I hear myself groan. 

Scully strokes my brow. I feel a cool cloth glide across my  
chin, around my mouth. I open my eyes, the cloth is tinged  
with pink. More blood. It's such a struggle to breathe. I  
feel my eyes slip shut. I'm so tired. 

"Mulder." 

Scully. I jerk awake. What's wrong? 

"Sorry, I...Just stay with me, all right?" Her eyes are  
pleading. 

"Tired." 

"I know you are, love. I know you are." 

The fact that she has slipped that term of endearment in  
tells me more than all the medical jargon combined. It  
can't be good if Scully is calling me love in a public place.  
But even under these circumstances, it 's nice to know what  
I mean to her. 

"Agent Mulder, Dr Scully." Scully drags her gaze from  
me and turns to face the man lingering in the doorway. 

"Dr McManus, did you look at the films?" 

The doctor casts a glance in my direction, then indicates  
he'd like to speak with Scully. She gives me a quick smile  
then joins him to view my X-rays. I lie quietly and  
concentrate on breathing, leaving the medical details to  
Scully. Something itches deep in my chest. It sets off  
another bout of coughing. I no longer bother trying to stifle  
it, too much energy is required. The hacking goes on and  
on, when it stops I am left weak and breathless. 

I try to listen to the Doctor and Scully. Their conversation  
floats across the room, soft and barely audible. I hear the  
no nonsense tone of Dr McManus, the quiet, resigned  
quality of my partner's voice, discussing the best course of  
action. I know they want to use deep suction, and I know  
they want to put me under for the procedure. While the  
idea of being awake is repugnant to me, the option of sleep  
scares me more. What if I never wake up? 

Scully walks back to my bedside. I can guess what she is  
going to say. Her expression is pained, somber. 

"This...really...sucks. Right?" 

"Big time." The pained expression leaves her face. She  
tries for a smile. 

A nurse enters the room. She carries a tray littered with an  
assortment of medical paraphernalia. She speaks to me, but  
I take no notice. Now that the time has come to put me to  
sleep, I feel my courage sink to my toes, cowering out of  
sight. I grab Scully's hand, holding on for dear life. God, I  
don't know if I can go through with this. 

Scully speaks to me, assuring me she will be by my side the  
whole time. 

The familiar feeling that accompanies anesthesia washes  
over me. My mind becomes sluggish, my thoughts thick  
and tangled as if wrapped in cotton. I sense each individual  
beat of my heart as it pumps the drug through my system.  
Tingling, around my lips, my tongue. I feel myself slipping  
under. Scully's voice drifts through the heaviness in my  
head. 

"Trust me...awake...no time...breathing... easier..." 

Trust me. Trust me. I do Scully. 

"Only you."  
  


Asheville Medical Center  
4:20 p.m. 

*********************  
Scully  
********************* 

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Simultaneously fascinated  
and repulsed, I can only watch as one by one, fat wriggling  
larvae are drawn up the tube inserted into Mulder’s lungs.  
The collection jar contains a gruesome cocktail of bloody  
mucous and the soft, pale bodies. Thank God that Mulder  
lies there in drugged oblivion, spared the horror of  
witnessing his body’s insidious invaders. 

Not that his waking will be pleasant. I warned Mulder that  
this procedure would be even more disagreeable than  
intubation, and I wasn’t exaggerating. The suction  
apparatus is invasive, abrading the soft tissue of Mulder’s  
trachea, and Dr. McManus has literally rooted around the  
delicate bronchi in search of the insects. He’s going to have  
one hell of a sore throat when they’re done. 

Another maggot shoots up the tube with a wet, squelching  
sound and I can’t help wincing. The walls around me press  
inward and the sterile mask clings like Saran wrap to my  
nose and mouth, suffocating me. I catch sight of Skinner  
peering through the window, brow contracted in  
apprehension and concern, and jump on the excuse to flee  
the O.R. 

“How is he?” Skinner asks before I can even remove the  
mask. 

“They’re using a deep suction technique that’s been  
designed for asthma and cystic fibrosis,” I explain, feeling  
myself slipping into the safety of doctor mode. “And, so  
far, we’re having some luck at clearing his lungs.” 

*That’s it, Dana, accentuate the positive – there’s so little  
of it.* 

Skinner has never been satisfied with half an answer, and  
now is no exception. “But?” he prods me to continue. 

“For every one of those things that are in his lung tissue  
there may be a dozen eggs that have yet to be hatched.” 

Skinner, only marginally better at assimilating extreme  
possibilities than I am, squints at me in disbelief. “Eggs?” 

“His pulmonary tissue is riddled with them,” I tell him,  
anger and frustration bubbling up inside me. “And they’re  
going to hatch. It’s just…we’re buying time.” 

I want to weep. I want to scream. I want to throw an adult  
version of the childhood temper tantrums Mom loves to  
remind me I had. But I am a special agent of the FBI, this  
man is my boss, and in this particular arena Mulder is only  
my partner. As I’ve done too many times in the past, I tuck  
my own feelings safely out of sight. 

Skinner, on the other hand, is visibly shaken by my  
revelation. His eyes slip shut and he glances away,  
swallowing hard. Finding his voice, he steers the  
conversation away from the emotional quicksand of  
Mulder’s death sentence to the safer ground of the  
investigation – how did the eggs get into Mulder and  
Scobie’s lungs? I’m only too glad to oblige, spouting  
information on the tobacco beetle’s life cycle and my  
personal theory that the genetically altered eggs were  
transmitted via cigarette smoke. 

We’re not so different, Walter Skinner and I. He hides his  
emotions behind authority and procedure; I bury mine  
beneath logic and science. 

*Unquestionably an X-File* 

Mulder’s voice, complete with smirk, echoes in my head,  
accompanied by a bright rush of pain that steals my breath. 

I turn to stare through the window of the O.R., peripherally  
hearing Skinner take his leave. He’s on a mission,  
determined to acquire the warrant necessary to search  
Morley and hopefully persuade Dr. Voss to talk. A part of  
me envies his ability to act, to immerse himself in the hunt  
for the truth, while I’m reduced to a helpless observer. 

And yet I must admit the catch-22 in this whole nightmare.  
If I was out there with Skinner right now, I’ve no doubt I’d  
be fretting over Mulder and longing to be by his side. When  
I fled to Africa, desperate to silence the voices in Mulder’s  
fevered brain, I nearly went crazy with worry. Had he  
gotten sicker? Did he understand where I’d gone, that I  
hadn’t abandoned him? Had I done the right thing? For the  
first time I’d truly comprehended what Mulder had endured  
during the end stages of my cancer. 

I should probably go back inside now, but my leaden feet  
won’t cooperate. I recall the gurgling sound as the larvae  
pass through the tube, the rapidly filling jar, and Mulder’s  
deathly pale face, and shiver. There’s a reason that doctors  
make it a policy not to treat their loved ones, and I’m  
brutally reminded of it now. 

I’m not sure how long I stand with one hand on the door,  
waging an inner battle, when the decision is taken out of  
my hands. Dr. McManus removes the suction apparatus  
from Mulder’s body and steps back, stripping off mask and  
gloves. He steps out into the hallway and pulls the surgical  
cap from his curly head with a sigh. 

“I think we’ve done all we can. Your partner’s breathing  
should be significantly improved.” He shakes his head in a  
mixture of amazement and disgust. “I can’t believe how  
many of those things we extracted. It’s amazing Agent  
Mulder functioned as well as he did.” 

I glance through the window as a nurse carefully wipes  
Mulder’s face and mouth. “Agent Mulder has had to  
overcome more than his share of obstacles.” I allow my lips  
to curve. “And he has a stubborn streak a mile wide.” 

McManus chuckles wearily. “Well, it’s served him well  
today.” He sobers. “You do realize…” 

“Yes,” I say, more sharply than I’d intended. I suck in a  
slow, deep breath of air and lace my arms across my chest.  
“He’s only been given a temporary respite. The larvae will  
continue to hatch and his condition will continue to  
deteriorate.” 

McManus brushes his fingers fleetingly against my  
shoulder, his brown eyes honestly sympathetic. “The nurses  
will finish cleaning him up and take him back to ICU. The  
Versed probably won’t start wearing off for at least an  
hour. You’ve got plenty of time to change and grab a cup  
of coffee, maybe something to eat.” He starts down the  
hallway toward the changing room but tosses over his  
shoulder, “You look like you could use it.” 

Though my impulse is to return immediately to ICU and  
wait for him, common sense and McManus’s not so subtle  
comment on my appearance convince me to take a short  
break. Mulder, sick as he is, will be the first to notice if I  
look like something the cat dragged in. The crazy fool  
would be just as likely to start worrying about *me* when  
he should be concentrating on his own health. So I change  
out of my scrubs and spend some time on damage control,  
splashing cool water on my face, finger-combing hair  
flattened by the surgical cap, and endeavoring to erase the  
fear from my eyes. A trip to the cafeteria for a cup of bad  
hospital coffee and a carton of yogurt, and I’m headed  
back, my steps quickening as I draw closer. 

I’m sidetracked, however, when my cell phone chirps  
cheerfully, drawing the hostile stares of several nurses. I  
give them my best Special Agent Dana Scully glare in reply  
and duck into an out of the way corner to take the call. 

Skinner’s report, confirming what I had suspected, gives  
me a seed of hope. If we can find this man, Darrell Weaver,  
and if he does have some kind of immunity to the beetles,  
and if we can figure out how to transfer that immunity to  
Mulder… The number of “ifs” involved overwhelms me,  
crushing the hope before it can begin to take root. I tuck the  
phone back into my pocket and work hard to regain my  
game face. 

When I walk into Mulder’s cubicle he’s still asleep and for  
a moment I’m content with looking, mesmerized by the  
steady, if shallow, rise and fall of his chest. No matter how  
many times I’m forced to see Mulder in these  
circumstances, I never grow used to it. The man possesses  
such an incredibly intense drive, always moving, always  
seeking. To witness him as he is now – so still, so passive –  
is almost more than I can bear. 

I walk quietly over and take his hand, weaving my small  
fingers among his larger ones. Like our lives, I muse,  
surveying the tangled digits. Hopelessly entwined, so that I  
am no longer able to tell where he ends and I begin. With  
my free hand I stroke the soft skin between knuckles and  
wrist, not caring that the unpartnerly gesture can be easily  
observed by the nurses just a stone’s throw away. 

Mulder’s eyes flutter, then slide slowly open and he  
solemnly absorbs the fact that I’m breaking rule number  
two – no public displays of affection. (Rule number one  
being no private displays of affection -- in the basement  
office.) Never one for subtlety, Mulder has been amazingly  
cooperative when it comes to our “rules.” I suppose  
eventually the truth about the shift in our relationship will  
get out, but for now, like a precious jewel, we hold it close  
and guard it jealously. 

“Hm. Must be bad,” Mulder rasps, his voice rough and thin. 

I keep my smile in place. “How do you feel?” 

Mulder grimaces. “Like a dust buster attacked me.” Even  
the abbreviated reply provokes a cough. 

My mouth quirks half-heartedly as thoughts of a hospital in  
Alaska and freezer burn float through my head. “We’re  
looking for someone who may be able to help you,” I  
explain. “A Morley test subject by the name of Darrel  
Weaver.” 

“Mr. E Pluribus…” Mulder rolls his eyes and gives a  
comical shake of his head that I can only assume is an  
imitation of Mr. Weaver. 

I’m in the middle of explaining my hope that Weaver just  
might provide a cure for what’s ailing Mulder when on odd  
look crosses his face and he gasps. 

And gasps again. 

Panic replaces puzzlement and he’s struggling in earnest  
now, his mouth opening and closing ineffectually as he  
wheezes and can’t fill his lungs with oxygen. I’ve only  
been fishing once in my life, lured into the outing by  
Charlie and Bill when I was only eight years old. I’ve never  
forgotten the sight of the poor fish as they lay on the  
bottom of the boat, mouths working impotently in their  
efforts to breathe. Mulder’s eyes lock onto mine and I feel  
as helpless as that eight-year-old child. 

“Mulder…!” 

The machines are going crazy, readouts dropping and  
alarms blaring. I finally shake myself out of immobility. 

“DOCTOR!” I call frantically, trying to elevate Mulder’s  
head to ease his breathing. 

By some miracle McManus is right there, circling to the  
other side of the bed. Unfortunately, my manipulation of  
Mulder’s position has had no discernable effect. My heart  
hammers wildly in my chest, a counterpoint to Mulder’s. 

“His SAT’s down to 72! Get some O2 on him and call the  
code!” I snap, heedless of etiquette and the fact that I have  
no authority to give the man orders. 

McManus, a true professional, accepts my instructions  
graciously. “Susan, Code Blue,” he barks as he slips an  
oxygen mask over Mulder’s nose and mouth. 

The next several minutes pass in a blur as Susan rolls the  
crash cart into place and McManus runs the code. Relief  
leaves me weak-kneed as Mulder demonstrates his  
stubborn streak yet again and comes back from the edge of  
the abyss. Until my eyes catch a flicker of movement  
beneath the oxygen mask and the noise and activity around  
me is drowned out by the ringing in my ears. 

A beetle. 

Crawling over Mulder’s lip, INSIDE the mask. 

And suddenly Mulder isn’t the only one who can’t breathe.  
  


******************  
Mulder  
******************  
  


I awake to the reassuring pulse of a heart monitor. Yes, I  
amaze myself that I would consider being attached to a  
machine reassuring. Each high pitched beep reminds me  
that I am still breathing in my own special, wheezing,  
ragged way. I am alive. I made it. Although the way my  
throat feels I'm wondering if that's such a good thing. 

I push my negative thoughts temporarily to the side as I  
recall the look on Scully's face. The devastation she tried  
so valiantly to hide, the worry lines framing her beautiful  
eyes, the quick upturn of her mouth as she realized she'd let  
her defenses slip. If for no other reason, she is enough to  
make me fight this. That, and I want to get my hands on  
Voss and his cronies. To have the opportunity to prove that  
their unlawful tests are responsible for the deaths of  
Gastall, Scobie and who knows how many more. The truth  
is in me. I chuckle, then regret the action. Pain in my  
throat and chest quickly reminds me that there is nothing  
humorous about this situation. 

I sink back into my pillow and concentrate on not  
swallowing, not coughing, and not laughing. My breathing  
is better than earlier but that depends on how you define the  
word “better.” Better than a dead man? Based on that  
benchmark then yeah, sure, it is better. 

I try not to think about how close I came to reaching that  
particular milestone, how close I probably still am. Did  
they get all the beetles, all the eggs? Are more hatching in  
me right now? A chill runs up my spine and I shiver at the  
image that thought conjures. 

I wonder where Scully is? I'm not used to waking without  
her by my hospital bed. Perhaps she has a lead, an answer  
to how these beetles can be killed. I hope she comes back  
soon. I feel safe when she is around, I trust her judgement.  
No matter how difficult this is for her to believe, how  
extreme the possibility, she has seen the evidence and she  
has seen what is happening to me. I know she will do  
everything in her power to help me, to save me. But I can't  
help wondering how strong that power can be against  
something that defies the laws of nature. 

I sigh in frustration. A cough slips out, then another. I hate  
this. I hate being sick and I hate the fear and vulnerability  
that I am forced to deal with. All I can do is lie here and  
wait. And hope that Skinner or Scully can find a cure  
before it's too late. My head aches, my chest hurts and my  
throat feels as if there’s been a layer of skin torn from it.  
As soon as I can talk without pain I'm going to let that doc  
know exactly what I think of his surgical skills. 

The continuous rhythm of the monitor has a calming effect  
on me, lulling me into a state of sleepiness as easily as a  
mother rocking her baby and humming a gentle tune. I let  
its monotonous tone wash over me and concentrate on  
regulating my breathing to match the beat. My mind is dull  
and tired -- sleep is not far away. Maybe when I wake  
Scully will be back. And then...maybe...she...she...she  
will...maybe... 

Mmmm. Soft. Gentle. Someone drawing little circles  
over my hand, around my wrist. Cool, strong fingers  
entwined in mine. Scully. She's back. Guess I drifted off  
after all. Things are not looking too good if she's showing  
another open display of affection. She really is letting her  
hair down. 

I push my eyelids up and gaze at her hand caressing mine.  
She doesn't let go. 

"Mm. It must be bad." Was that really my voice? 

"How do you feel?" She offers me a smile. 

Truthfully? "Like a dust buster attacked me." And its  
cousin, uncle, auntie, bother, sister... Hell, like a whole  
brigade of dust busters attacked me. My throat constricts  
and a cough escapes. Right now talking is way down low  
on the “top ten” list of things I'd most like to do. 

Scully is speaking again. "We're looking for someone who  
maybe able to help you. A Morley test subject by the  
name of Darrel Weaver." 

Oh yeah. Mr. “I'd like to quote you the whole damn  
constitution if you try and step on my civil rights.” I give  
Scully the condensed version. 

"Mr. E. Pluribus..." I wonder if she'll get my weak attempt  
to impersonate the man himself. 

"Well, Mr. Weaver seems to have some kind of tolerance  
or immu..." 

I hear her talking to me, but my attention has been drawn  
away by something moving in my chest. Oh, Jeezus. It's  
not in my chest, it's crawling up my throat. Scully. No  
sound. NO AIR. I gasp. Shit, still nothing. Can't cough.  
Can't breathe. Scully! Help me! 

She's looking at me. Her mouth is moving but I can't hear  
words above the roaring in my ears, the hammering in my  
chest. 

Hands. Lifting my head. I gotta get out of here. I move my  
arms, my legs. My head is spinning. Noises. Beeping.  
Voices. People all around me. I struggle to get up. Can't.  
Hands pushing me down. Mask on my face. No effect. A  
spasm hits my chest. I cough. Again. Gasping. AIR! I  
suck it in. Oh god. It's in my mouth. Crawling. Slithering.  
Tickling across my tongue, my lips, on my chin. But I can  
breathe. I can breathe. I search for Scully. I see her face  
hovering above me. It's twisting and rolling and shrinking  
into blackness. All around me. It's dark...  
  


Asheford Medical Center  
10:34 p.m.  
  


******************  
Scully  
******************  
  


Like a rock tumbling downhill, picking up speed as it nears  
the bottom, Mulder’s condition continues to deteriorate. I  
grudgingly allow the nurse to shoo me from the cubicle so  
that she can run Mulder’s vitals, but hover near the  
window. I know it’s ironic and out of character for the  
rational Dr. Scully, but I can’t bring myself to let him out  
of my sight. I have the overwhelming sensation that if I do  
something terrible will happen. 

Well, he got into this mess without me beside him, didn’t  
he? 

Ever since McManus and the nurses pulled him back from  
respiratory failure, Mulder has drifted in and out of  
consciousness. The sheer effort of trying to fill his lungs  
with air coupled with repeated bouts of coughing up blood  
has weakened him, and I know he won’t be able to breathe  
unassisted much longer. 

Intubation. Mulder hates it even more than the Foley  
catheter I’ve heard so many wise remarks about. Looking at  
him now, though, I realize he’s probably past the point of  
caring. He’s so tired… 

“Doctor Scully?” 

Dr. McManus strides down the hallway and hands me  
Mulder’s chart, complete with the latest set of films.  
“We've got him stabilized on ECMO for the moment but  
we're not going to be able to maintain him on it for long.  
Of course, you see why.” 

Oh God. I stare at the X-ray in disbelief, a prickling feeling  
not unlike the legs of certain black, hard-shelled insects  
creeping up and down my spine. The image is no worse  
than I should have expected, given the downward slide of  
Mulder’s condition. Yet confronting the raw, physical  
evidence of just how drastically he has lost ground rocks  
my determination not to give up hope. 

Larvae. Lots and lots of larvae. Clogging Mulder’s airways  
and interfering with the crucial transfer of oxygen into his  
bloodstream. 

“There’s more now than there were six hours ago,” I say,  
unable to mask my disbelief. 

“They're beginning to block the flow of blood. Our best  
bet is to go back in there,” McManus says soberly. He  
hesitates a moment before adding, “I think this time, we  
have to crack the chest.” 

His suggestion rips my gaze from the X-ray to fasten on his  
face. “No. No, I... He's too weak for thoracic surgery.  
He...he'd die on the table,” I tell him vehemently. 

I won’t let him die alone in a cold, sterile operating room,  
cut open like a slab of meat, damn it! Skinner is still out  
there, tracking down the elusive Darrell Weaver and our  
miracle cure. I’ll do whatever I can to hold Mulder together  
long enough to grant Skinner the time he needs. And if… If  
death comes for Mulder in spite of our efforts to hold it at  
bay, then by God I’ll be holding onto him, kicking and  
screaming, until the very end. 

McManus shakes his head in resignation, a little frustrated  
with my refusal to capitulate with his suggested course of  
treatment. “I don't know what our other options are.” 

Now, more than ever, I must not lose credibility with this  
man. I fight to keep the tremor from my voice with only  
moderate success. “I'd say for the time being, we just wait.” 

Disapproval darkens the doctor’s face. Though his tone is  
not unkind, his words bludgeon me. “That'll definitely kill  
him. Sooner or later.” 

I turn back to watch the nurse finish working on Mulder,  
listening to McManus’s receding footsteps. Susan looks up  
and nods, clearing out of the way when I practically charge  
back through the door. She catches my elbow before I can  
reach the bedside chair. 

“His pulse ox isn’t good. I’m going to talk to Dr. McManus  
about getting him on a respirator,” she murmurs, eyes  
warm and sympathetic. “I thought you’d want to know.” 

Mulder’s eyes are closed, and I mistakenly think he’s  
slipped back out of consciousness until his hoarse protest  
startles me. 

“No.” 

I pick up his hand and his eyes drag slowly open, a bit  
glassy with exhaustion and pain, but aware. He licks dry  
lips and gives a small shake of his head before repeating  
the word. 

“No.” 

“Hey,” I greet, trying to ignore the negative. I know all too  
well what he’s trying to tell me. “How are you doing?” 

“No…respirator.” 

Stubborn bastard. I feel my forehead contracting in a frown  
of disapproval and ruthlessly smooth the lines away. 

“Mulder, you aren’t getting enough oxygen on your own.  
Your lungs have to work too hard and you aren’t strong  
enough.” 

Sensible words. If only this were a sensible situation. 

“Hate it.” He coughs feebly and a small trickle of blood  
spills from the corner of his mouth. 

Focusing on the task, I pick up a moist cloth and swipe it  
gently across his lips and down his chin. “I know you hate  
it, G-man, but we don’t have a lot of alternatives. Skinner is  
out there right now, tracking down Darrell Weaver, and we  
need you to hold on until…” 

“Long shot.” 

Mulder has always had a way of taking the wind out of my  
sails, even lying half-dead in a hospital bed. He takes a  
little hitching gulp of air and his eyes bore into mine. My  
smooth exterior develops a few hairline cracks, but I  
struggle on persistently. 

“We investigate long shots, Mulder. That’s what the X-  
Files is all about.” 

He blinks, surprised and even a little amused by my  
answer, if the slight curve of his mouth is any indication.  
The humor fades quickly, however, and he squeezes my  
hand. 

“Don’t want…be…produce section.” 

My eyes burn. “Mulder, I don’t…” 

“Promise.” 

I stare helplessly into those beautiful eyes and nod, my  
throat tight and sore. I reach over to stroke dark hair back  
from his sweaty brow and he leans into the touch. “If it  
comes to that… I know what you’d want, Mulder. But it  
hasn’t come to that yet.” 

He’s either satisfied with my response, or just too tired to  
put up further resistance. Susan comes back with McManus  
on her heels and they proceed to set up the respirator.  
McManus, obviously still miffed at me, speaks only to  
Mulder. 

“Agent Mulder, you aren’t getting enough oxygen on your  
own power. We’re going to have to hook you up to a  
respirator and give you some help. Do you understand?” 

Mulder’s eyes lock on mine for a long moment before he  
nods. McManus looks at me from the corner of his eye as  
he continues. 

“We’re going to give you a little something to help you  
relax through the procedure. Not much, because we don’t  
want to compromise your respiration any further. It’s  
important you hold very still until we get the tube in place.” 

Mulder grimaces. “Been…there.” 

McManus grins just a little. “Okay then, here we go.” 

Susan injects the sedative into Mulder’s I.V. port and  
McManus opens the pack of sterile tubing. Mulder’s eyes  
droop and lose focus and I can feel his fingers trying to  
hold onto mine. Susan fastens a restraint over his free wrist  
but indicates with a tilt of her head that I can continue to  
hold the other. 

The next several minutes are highly unpleasant. Sedative or  
no, Mulder tugs reflexively against the restrictions of the  
cloth strap and my firm grip, gagging helplessly. Even  
when the tube is in place and the machine engaged he  
persists in the frantic choking gasps. 

“Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder, don’t fight the respirator,”  
McManus orders sharply. “Let it do the work.” 

When his commands have no effect I insert myself between  
him and Mulder, leaning over the bed so that I fill his  
vision. McManus makes a small huff of annoyance that I  
ignore, cradling Mulder’s face in my palms and chasing his  
wildly darting eyes with my own. 

“Mulder. Mulder! Look at me.” 

The urgency in my voice along with my touch captures his  
attention and he ceases his thrashing, though his body  
continues to tremble. 

“Relax,” I tell him, stroking my thumbs over his cheeks.  
“Breathe with the machine. In. Out. In. Out.” 

Mulder slowly submits, settling into the rhythm of the  
machine, which is set to augment his own respiration. As  
the adrenaline rush dissipates and I keep up my soft patter,  
his body relaxes and he drifts into an in between state – not  
awake, but not quite asleep. I move back down to reclaim  
his hand and McManus scribbles a few notations on the  
chart. 

“We’ll adjust the respirator accordingly as his breathing  
declines. And if you change your mind about surgery…” 

“I won’t,” I reply firmly. 

He shrugs and hangs the chart back on the end of the bed  
before walking over to the nurses’ station to consult with  
Susan. I look back at Mulder’s wan face and sink into a  
chair, the confidence I just projected deserting me. 

*Hurry up, Skinner* I think. *Miracle cures don’t help  
dead men.*  
  


******************  
Mulder  
****************** 

The incessant beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor is no  
longer the comforting, reassuring companion it was just a  
few short hours ago. Now it is a constant source of  
irritation, reminding me of my tenuous hold on life, that  
there are beetles growing inside of me, reproducing,  
thriving on my lung tissue, my blood, and that in due  
course they will probably kill me. If I had the strength I  
would yank the damn lead out of the wall. Why do they  
have to hear my heart beat to know I'm alive? Surely the  
crackling, rasping sounds of my strangled gasps for air are  
enough to tell them I'm still hanging on. Tethered to this  
life by some fraying, tattered will to live that I've managed  
to dredge up from who knows where. 

And then she's back by my side. I no longer wonder where  
the will comes from. She is my reason for fighting the  
infestation residing in my lungs. Scully's face swims above  
me. I don't know where she has been this time. She  
alternates between holding my hand and accosting the  
various medical personnel that stroll past my cubicle. I  
stare up at her through heavy lids, trying to bring her into  
focus. I'm not sure if it's the drugs or lack of oxygen, but  
my brain has been taking it easy for awhile, my eyes  
struggling with the concept of remaining open and peering  
at the outside world. 

I blink once, twice, and for a second Scully's face is clear  
and looking like it should. 

"The nurse needs to check your vitals, love. It should only  
take a few minutes, okay?" She twists her fingers through  
my hair, then sweeps them across my brow, the way she  
knows I like so much. My lids flutter and begin to slide  
shut again. I strain to keep them open, not wanting to miss  
one second of Scully's face, not while it's clear and in  
focus. And not while it's wearing one of those all too rare  
killer smiles. She leans in and kisses my forehead. Oh  
yeah, this is bad. 

"Back soon, partner. Play nice for the nurse." Her words  
are barely a whisper against my ear, then she's gone. No  
reason to keep my eyes open now. I let them slide shut and  
turn back to the task at hand. 

Breathing. 

Scully is right. The whole procedure of checking my vitals  
takes only a few minutes. I have no need to open my eyes  
to know she is back in the room. I hear the hushed  
whispers between her and the nurse. Most of their  
conversation is too quiet for me to make out the words,  
except for one. It hangs in the air like a death sentence.  
“Respirator.” 

"No." I gasp. Not the tube. The thought of anything being  
forced down my throat is almost unbearable. It feels raw  
and swollen. Swallowing is a nightmare, talking almost  
impossible. Not to mention the act of breathing. But I  
*can* do it. I *will* manage. No more foreign objects  
shoved down my throat. 

I feel Scully take my hand. I know this is the prelude to her  
explanation of how necessary it is to use the respirator to  
keep me alive. I open my eyes. I at least owe her the  
courtesy of looking at her as I present my argument,  
however limited and feeble that may be. I lick my lips in  
preparation. 

"No." I repeat. Okay so I'm not going to win any points  
for my debating team, but hey, that took a lot of effort. 

"Hey, how are you doing?" Don't ignore me, Scully. 

"No...respirator." Please, don't make me do this. It hurts  
too much to talk. 

She gives me the facts. The Dr Scully sensible facts, and I  
know that what she is saying is right. But I can't do it. I  
just can't. 

"Hate it." More coughing. More blood. It's getting worse.  
I know it is. 

Scully wipes my mouth and explains what Skinner is trying  
to do. I appreciate his efforts, but what are the odds of  
finding this guy and then him being able to help me? 

"Long shot." I rasp. 

"We investigate long shots, Mulder. That's what the X-  
Files is all about." 

That takes me by surprise. Very clever, Scully, play me at  
my own game. She's learning. But I have to make her  
understand. Unless they can find a way of killing the  
beetles and their eggs there's no point to the ventilator.  
How long is it going to keep me alive? Days? Weeks?  
Years? Until my lungs are so completely full of  
squirming, wriggling bugs that the damage is irreversible?  
So, I get to live here like a vegetable, machines replacing  
my brain, doing the work of my lungs, my heart, my  
kidneys, living my life for me? Scully visiting me, wearing  
herself down. Never moving on because I continue to exist  
in a hospital hooked up to life support, reminding her of the  
past. No. I won't put her through that. I won't be that kind  
of a burden on the one person that has ever really given a  
damn about me. 

I muster up what’s left of my waning strength. "Don't  
want...be...produce section." 

"Mulder. I don't..." 

"Promise." Please don't argue with me, Scully. You, of all  
people should understand what I'm asking. 

She strokes my brow again. It feels so good. I lean into  
her touch, savoring the feel of her hand against my skin.  
She speaks to me as she touches me, and I know she  
understands. Relief floods through me. I knew I could trust  
you Scully. Knew I could. 

The moment is broken by the clatter of more equipment  
being wheeled into the cubicle. 

"Agent Mulder," Dr McManus addresses me, "you aren't  
getting enough oxygen on your own power. We're going to  
have to hook you up to a ventilator and give you some help.  
Do you understand?" 

Scully? My eyes latch onto hers, and I see it. Love, hope,  
desperation. She feels all those things for me? How can I  
give up? Wouldn't I expect her to fight if our situations  
were reversed? Damn straight I would. Should I be asking  
her to expect any less of me? The short answer is no. I  
make my decision and nod, giving the doctor the go ahead. 

He starts explaining the procedure, what he's going to do.  
Don't waste your breath, Doc, you’re talking to an old pro. 

"Been...there." 

McManus seems to find that amusing. "Okay, here we go." 

I watch the nurse inject something into my IV. A sedative,  
I suppose. Almost immediately I feel its effects. My eyes  
grow heavy, my tongue thickens, and I feel my grasp on  
Scully's hand begin to loosen. I try to hold on but my  
fingers will not co-operate. Cloth around my other wrist.  
Restraint? Then the torture begins. 

Accustomed as I am to this procedure, I'm pretty sure most  
of the insertions have been done while I've been  
unconscious, only the unpleasant extubations taking place  
while I've been awake. If I ever thought having the tube  
pulled free was bad, it is nothing compared to this. My gag  
reflex kicks in instinctively, trying to repel the intrusive  
plastic tubing that bumps and scratches its way along the  
back of my throat to my lungs. I gag again. This is much  
worse than I expected. I start to pull at the restraint. Get it  
out. Get. It. Out. STOP. Scully. No. I can’t do this. I  
thrash and gasp, but still they persist. SCULLY! Help me. 

"Agent Mulder! Age..." 

McManus is yelling at me. Get the hell away from me.  
You're choking me. I should never have agreed to this. I  
shake my head but it’s held tight. McManus disappears  
from my line of sight. In his place is Scully. She holds my  
face in her hands. Lemme go, Scully! Please, make them  
stop. I feel myself gagging, my stomach heaving. 

"Mulder. Mulder! Look at me." 

Scully? I fix my eyes on her face. 

"Relax." She strokes my cheek. I try to do as she says.  
Relax, relax. "Breathe with the machine. In. Out. In.  
Out." 

Right. In. Out. In. Out. It gets a little easier. I make a  
conscious effort to relax my muscles. Shoulders, arms,  
legs, neck. Yeah, it’s getting better. Easier. Scully keeps  
up her gentle crooning. I focus on that. I'm breathing, the  
machine is breathing. I let it do the work. Tired again.  
Can't sleep, might not wake up. Don't have a choice. Eyes  
won't stay open. Head won't stay clear. The rhythmic hiss  
of the respirator fills my ears. Can't fight it any more.  
Don't... want... to.  
  


Asheville Medical Center  
11:58 p.m. 

******************  
Scully  
******************  
  


Susan gives an apologetic wince as she adjusts the  
respirator to further augment Mulder’s breathing. He’s past  
the point of protesting, barely even lucid most of the time  
now, and though I know he hears me I’m not sure he  
understands. The machine may be doing most of his  
breathing but it can’t compensate for diminished blood  
flow through the lung tissue. 

Time is running out. 

I can’t stop agonizing over whether I’ve made the correct  
decision or consigned Mulder to a death sentence. Maybe if  
I’d allowed McManus to do the surgery, to really clean out  
Mulder’s lungs… But no, he never would have survived the  
strain on his heart and lungs, he was much too weak. Still,  
just sitting here and watching him slip away, doing  
absolutely nothing… 

My cellphone trills and I scramble to answer it with  
trembling fingers. 

*PleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod* 

“Scully.” 

“We’ve got Weaver and are en route to the medical center.  
He’s taken a hit in the shoulder and will need treatment  
ASAP. I’d say we’re about ten minutes out.” 

Skinner’s voice, clipped and gruff, may just be the sweetest  
thing I’ve ever heard. I realize I’ve snapped to attention and  
am nodding in spite of the fact that he can’t see me. The  
man’s presence, even over the phone, is larger than life. 

“Yes sir. We’ll be standing by.” 

I tuck the phone back into my pocket and stand, staring  
down into Mulder’s pale face. I have to get McManus,  
prepare things for Weaver’s arrival, but leaving Mulder  
proves to be much more complicated than simply making  
my feet move. I glance furtively over my shoulder to be  
certain I’m unobserved before brushing a kiss over first his  
forehead and then the corner of his mouth. 

“Don’t you quit on me now, Mulder,” I whisper, my  
attempt to sound stern spoiled by the quaver in my voice.  
“Help is on the way – do you hear me?” 

Amazingly, his eyelids drift open a crack to reveal a glitter  
of hazel. I have no way of knowing if he comprehended  
what I just said, but the display of stubborn determination  
comforts me. 

The next ten minutes pass in a jumble of activity, and by  
the time the EMTs rush Weaver into the ER my heart is  
pounding with nervous anticipation. 

“How’s Mulder?” Skinner calls immediately, and despite  
my anxiety I’m warmed by his concern. 

“Not good,” I reply shortly. To say more would be to  
betray the depth of my feelings – something I can’t afford.  
“Let’s get bloodwork on this man.” 

We rush Weaver into an exam room, McManus on my  
heels. I force myself to look at Darrel Weaver through  
objective eyes, though my brain screams that he’s the  
reason the man I love knocks at death’s door. Rather than  
the devil incarnate, I see a fairly unremarkable man with  
thinning hair and grubby clothing. He evidently doesn’t  
spend much time on personal hygiene, I note sardonically  
as my eyes travel down his grime-streaked arms to his  
yellowed fingertips. Maybe if he put out his cigarette and  
climbed into the shower… 

Everything around me, the bustle of ER personnel and  
McManus’s quiet instructions, fades from existence as my  
eyes lock onto those callused yellow digits. Nicotine stains,  
my mind notes absently. Something only the heaviest of  
smokers develop. How many packs has Weaver been  
smoking each day, to wind up with those stains? Far more  
than the average one to two packs of a moderately heavy  
smoker. 

Unusual to smoke so much. Very unusual. Imagine the  
nicotine level in Weaver’s blood stream… 

My heart lurches. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” I  
mutter, frowning to combat the sudden surge of hope that  
blindsides me. “Get me 30 milligrams of methyl  
pyrrolidinyl pyridine.” 

McManus’s eyebrows skyrocket. “Nicotine?” 

*Do not question me on this* I think, knowing I’ve just  
made a Mulderleap. If the answer could only be this  
simple… 

“Yeah,” I confirm, ignoring his doubts and my own. I look  
up at Skinner’s puzzled face, half-afraid to voice my hopes.  
“I think this could save Mulder’s life.” 

The nurse looks to McManus for confirmation and he  
reluctantly nods. While she prepares a syringe I turn back  
to Skinner. 

“Nicotine is a strong poison,” I explain, trying not to chafe  
at the delay. When Skinner continues to look baffled I add,  
“It was actually used as an insecticide at one time.” 

Understanding floods his face. “Do you really think it will  
work?” 

I tip my head toward Weaver. “Look at his fingers. He’s  
obviously an incredibly heavy smoker. Could be that’s  
what kept him alive.” 

“Maybe we should go with a lower dose,” McManus  
cautions. “Thirty milligrams could result in overdose.” 

“We can’t afford for even one of those things to survive,” I  
argue. 

“So you’re hoping the nicotine will do for Mulder what  
smoking did for Weaver,” Skinner muses. 

“Exactly. If I’m right, the nicotine will kill the bugs, the  
larvae, and even the eggs.” 

“If it doesn’t kill Agent Mulder first,” McManus mutters. 

I glare at him and accept the proffered syringe, heading for  
ICU as fast as my legs will carry me. How dare McManus  
be the voice of doom? 

How dare he verbalize my fears? 

“Pull the tube,” I order Susan as I breeze into the cubicle. 

“Pull…I don’t…?” She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind,  
then over to McManus to see if he’ll protest. 

“If this drug has the effect that I think it will, those things  
are going to do whatever they can to get the hell out of  
Mulder’s body,” I snap, swabbing the injection port on the  
I.V. “I intend to give them a path of least resistance.” 

I see McManus nod out of the corner of my eye, and I  
empty the syringe as Susan disconnects the ventilator and  
removes the tube from Mulder’s throat. I stand rigidly, eyes  
darting between the monitors and Mulder’s face. For a long  
moment nothing happens. Then, abruptly, the monitors go  
wild. 

And so does Mulder. 

His eyes fly wide open and he gags and chokes, his body  
convulsing. His heart monitor beeps wildly and Susan  
desperately attempts to restrain his flailing limbs.  
McManus darts to the other side of the bed just as  
Mulder’s heartrate plunges. 

“He’s not breathing! Code Blue, get the…” 

His command ends in a horrified gasp as black tobacco  
beetles squirm out of Mulder’s nose and mouth only to  
drop onto the bed and floor, lifeless. Susan shrieks and  
scoots backward so fast that she nearly knocks over the  
ventilator. Shaking off my immobility, I grab Mulder, roll  
him to his side, and wait helplessly until the last invader  
drops onto the pillow near his cheek. The convulsions  
abruptly cease and Mulder goes completely still. Brushing  
stray insects out of the way, I turn to look for Susan. 

“Get the hell over here and run the code, we’re losing  
him!”  
  


******************  
Mulder  
******************  
  


"Hello Fox." 

"Who are you?" 

"I think you know." Can't see. Too dark. How did he get  
in? 

"What are you doing here?" 

"This is my domain, Fox. You're here because I invited  
you." 

"No. This is a hospital, you can't be in here." 

"Take a look around you. Does this look like a hospital?" 

Smoke, thick and heavy with the stench of tobacco. All  
around me. Where the hell am I? 

"Very good Fox. Hell. That's one word to describe it." 

"What do you mean?" 

"It's time to choose, Fox. This is all about choices." 

"What choices? What are you talking about?" 

"You still don't know which side you're on do you, son?" 

"I'm not on *any* side." 

"You know Fox, most people believe they're on the side of  
angels. Is that what you believe?" 

"I don't believe in angels." 

"Ah. But that's not true. What about your sister? What do  
you believe happened to her?" 

I feel a cold sweat trailing down my back. Soaking my  
under arms. Who is this guy? 

"Come on, Fox. I'm waiting for an answer." 

"Well, go ahead an wait. I have nothing to say to you. I  
don't even know who you are!" 

"You'd like to know though, wouldn't you? What if I could  
give you the answers, Fox? All the answers to all the  
questions you've ever asked? Whose side would you be on  
then?" 

"Are you offering me the answers?" 

"It's your choice, Fox." 

"And what's in it for you?" 

"Why, you join me of course." 

"I don't even know who you are!" 

"Does it matter? To have the knowledge you so  
desperately seek. Wouldn't it be worth it? 

"What are you talking about? Come out and show  
yourself." 

Footsteps. Muted. Dull. 

"YOU! " 

"Do you like what you see?" 

"Yes. I do. I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch!" And  
I lunge at him. 

My feet. Stuck to the ground. I look down, searching for  
the reason I am unable to move. Oh God. Snakes. Around  
my ankles, twisting up my legs. NOOOO! Higher.  
Hissing. Slithering. I lose my balance, crash to the floor.  
Another one. Coiled around my chest. Squeezing.  
Crushing. I can't breathe. I try to pull it off. Arms, won't  
move. More snakes around my wrists. Holding me down.  
I twist my head. No, no, no, NO! Beetles. Crawling over  
me, surrounding me. On my neck. Scuttling higher. Over  
my chin. In my mouth. I spit and gag. God, they're  
everywhere. Help me. SCULLEEEEE! No air. I feel my  
body tremble, my arms, legs, twitching. Above me a giant  
snake, ready, primed, hissing, squealing. Squealing,  
squealing... 

"Hold him down! He's seizing!" Voices. Faces. Who?  
Snakes. Still squealing. No, not snakes. OH GOD.  
Beetles. In my mouth. I gag. They're choking me.  
They're...SCULLY...H...Help...M...me... 

Light. Bright light. So warm. Peaceful. I feel myself  
being drawn to it. Calm. Gentle. Floating. 

"Fox. Honey." 

Mom? Is that you? 

"..lder!" 

Aaah! Scully? Mom? Mom. Warmth. The light, calling  
me. Drifting. Higher. So... peaceful. I'm coming. 

"...ulder!" 

AAAAh! Pain! All around me. In my chest. Gagging.  
God, it hurts. SCULLLEEE! No! Squeezing. Pressing,  
into my chest. 

"Clear!" Ah! A jolting agony shoots through my chest  
again. Then it stops. Nothing. Voices. I think I hear  
Skinner. Not sure. And Scully, yes, I hear Scully. Cold  
sting on my arm. Voices, fading. Can't think. My head is  
heavy, my body numb. Sinking. Deeper and deeper into  
the darkness...  
  


******************  
Scully  
******************  
  


It takes McManus three tries to jumpstart Mulder’s heart,  
and mine nearly stops in the process. Eventually it  
maintains an acceptable rhythm and his breathing, though  
labored, is steady. McManus, Susan, and I gaze shakily  
from each other to the dead insects littering the floor. 

“Is he okay? Does this mean it worked?” 

Skinner’s voice startles me, and I look over to where he  
stands uncomfortably, just inside the doorway. If his jaw  
were any tighter it might crack in two. 

“Dr. McManus will need to perform another deep suction  
to remove the dead larvae,” I tell him wearily. “And we’ll  
need another set of x-rays to be sure. But if this is any  
indication” – I toe a dead beetle with the tip of my shoe –  
“I’d say there’s a good chance it worked.” 

Skinner grimaces. “I’m going to check on Weaver. Keep  
me posted.” 

It seems the events of the last twelve hours have finally  
convinced McManus to defer to my judgement. He scrubs  
his eyes wearily with the heels of his hands and sighs  
heavily. “Susan, prep Agent Mulder for another deep  
suctioning.” He wrinkles his nose. “And get an orderly in  
here to clean up.” 

Susan waits until McManus leaves the cubicle before  
looking at me sheepishly. “I’m very sorry Doctor Scully. I  
know it’s no excuse, but I’ve been a nurse for ten years and  
I’ve never seen anything like that.” 

I curb a sharp retort, reminding myself that the past seven  
years have conditioned me to expect the unexpected in all  
it’s most bizarre forms. “Forget it,” I tell her. “I’m going to  
wash my hands. I’ll be right back.” 

I spend long moments soaping and rinsing, unable to shake  
the sensation of the hard shells beneath my fingertips. I turn  
off the water and lean on the sink, staring at my haggard  
face in the mirror. I reach slowly up to touch first my nose  
and then my lips, eyes slamming shut as I remember the  
way the bugs poured out of Mulder. 

*They’re dead* I tell myself firmly. *It’s all over now. You  
killed them* 

But another, quieter voice chimes in. 

*And you nearly killed Mulder.* 

Tears escape the barriers I’ve erected and squeeze past my  
tightly closed eyelids, scalding my cheeks. I shudder  
helplessly and sink to my knees, no longer attempting to  
stifle my sobs. 

It's not over for me. It won't be for a long time.  
  


Asheville Medical Center  
Next day  
1:14 p.m. 

******************  
Mulder  
******************  
  


I give the remote control a shake. Yeah, okay, I know the  
remote isn't responsible for the crap that is served up on  
daytime television. But I've gotta take my frustration out  
on something. The staff won't come near me. I don't know  
what their problem is. All I did was ask to use the  
bathroom instead of the plastic bottle. I mean, what's the  
big deal? I'm breathing unaided and the Foley's gone, so  
they must figure I'm capable of peeing on my own. It  
wasn't my fault the IV nearly came out when I tried to get  
out of bed and go by myself. I moved too quickly and the  
blood rushed to my feet. If they’d given me a minute I  
would have been fine. 

And I guess they weren't too happy with my reaction to  
lunch. Apart from the fact that my throat is killing me and  
I have a headache the size of New York City, I really  
thought I might have been able to manage some Jell-O.  
That was until they removed the lid to expose some kind of  
rice pudding concoction. My stomach lurched  
uncontrollably as images of maggots jumped out at me  
from the bowl. My enthusiasm for food took a nosedive  
and I indicated where they could stick their hospital food. 

That was about an hour ago. I've been left to my own  
devices since then. Lots of time to think. To ponder how  
differently this could have turned out. I owe Scully my  
life. Again. And Skinner. Neither one of them gave up on  
me. It must have been hard for Scully, I know she doesn't  
really trust Skinner. Not after what happened to me when  
we found the artifact. I hope this will restore some of her  
faith in him. I've tried to explain to her but she gets this  
pigheaded look on her face and I know I'm fighting a losing  
battle. 

I wonder how Weaver is doing. Another victim of big  
business using whatever means they can to make money.  
Well, maybe what happened to me will be enough to close  
them down. Stop the moneymen from playing with  
people's lives all in the name of profit. 

I sigh, and a cough breaks free. An ominous warning that  
it's not over yet. I've been told I'll need therapy and  
medication to repair the damage to my lungs. I guess that  
cancels out running for awhile and field agent status. Back  
to desk duty. Yet again. Oh, yeah, I'm real pleased about  
that. I should stop whining and thank my lucky stars I'm  
able to work at all. The alternative is...well...let’s just say  
it's kind of hard to work when you're dead. It was touch  
and go this time. I'm still not sure how Scully came up  
with the idea of the nicotine. And more to the point, to  
follow through and use it. She really had to make that call  
on the fly, and she 's not big on that sort of thing. That's  
more my style. Scully likes to analyze the situation, weigh  
up all the odds, and then make her decision. Me, I don't  
waste my time doing that. I have a tendency to bulldoze  
right ahead and add up the damage later. I guess that's why  
it's usually me in the hospital and not Scully. This time  
though, the chips were down and in a tight situation she  
made the right call. Just like I knew she would. I can't  
think of anyone I'd rather have fighting on my side than  
her. 

So, now it's a waiting game. The doctors want to make  
sure there's no permanent damage, that I don't have a  
relapse. Relapse -- that's a doctor euphemism for “we want  
to make sure there's no more bugs hibernating in your  
lungs.” I shudder at the thought. Trust me, no one wants to  
make sure of that more than I do. 

How long have I been awake now? It must be about 4  
hours and already I'm bored out of my mind. I'd try and get  
out of bed and stretch my legs if I didn't think it would  
create a national incident. I glance at the TV, reach for the  
remote, and start flicking through the channels again. 

“Days of our Lives.” “The Bold and the Beautiful.” “Jerry  
Springer.” Hmm, that has potential. Oh, no. Not the guy  
who married his sister's best friend's cousin's adopted  
daughter only to dump her in favor of his brother's  
girlfriend's son! I saw that one last time I was in the  
hospital. I continue my surfing until the frowning face of  
Judge Judy fills the screen. I leave it there. Well, it's good  
for a laugh if nothing else. 

My attention is held for about five minutes. I cannot  
believe the networks have such little regard for the  
intelligence of the general population. Do they seriously  
expect people to watch these shows? My patience frays to  
tattered shreds. I have the urge to be doing something but I  
don't know what. All I know is that sitting here doing  
nothing is driving me crazy, despite my weakened physical  
state. 

I shift restlessly in my bed. How long are they gonna keep  
me in this time? And where's Scully? I need to know  
what's happening with Voss. And Skinner -- I thought he  
might have called by to at least tell me what is going on. 

I pick up the remote and give some consideration to hurling  
it through the television. That should endear me to the  
staff. Then of course there's Scully. Do I really want to  
have to explain that kind of outburst to her? Damn it, I hate  
hospitals. 

Back to channel surfing, surely there must be something  
worth watching. If they had cable... 

The door opens. Another nurse, come to give...Scully! At  
last. 

"Hey, Scully." Is that husky, grating voice really mine? 

She reminds me to whisper and that's all the encouragement  
I need to start moaning about what a hellhole it is here. She  
seems to find this amusing and I realize my bitterness is  
subsiding as she giggles over my criticism of Judge Judy  
and daytime TV in general. 

Scully giggling -- pure delight. 

I abruptly understand just how much I have to live for and  
how grateful I should be for this second chance at life. 

Scully’s face is drawn and pale. It's been rough on her too.  
I want to hold her, tell her it's okay. I need her close to me. 

I pat the mattress, inviting her to sit with me on the bed.  
My action goes against all convention, she is not going to  
be comfortable with this. But I came too close to bowing  
out last night and I don't want to waste our time dancing  
around protocol. Besides, who's going to see us here? She  
is near enough for me to grab her hand. I do, and pull her  
towards the bed. 

She gives token resistance as she climbs up next to me.  
Even as she is snuggling closer she continues to offer weak  
protest. "A nurse will need to check your vitals." 

"Not if you get there first." I lift an eyebrow suggestively.  
I know I've won when she puffs a defeated sigh and shifts  
herself into a comfortable position beside me. I mold my  
body around hers and for the first time since waking up I  
feel myself begin to relax. I wonder how I ever managed  
before Scully came into my life. My very existence  
depends on her now. 

"Scully?" 

"Yes, Mulder?" 

"Thank you." Thank you for being there, for loving me and  
for saving me. 

"I'm just staying here a little while, Mulder, so don't get  
used to it." I'm not sure why she is deflecting me like this,  
feigning ignorance. Something is bothering her. I tighten  
my grip on her hand. 

"I owe you. Big time." More than you'll ever know,  
Scully. 

She shakes her head. I feel her body tremble against mine.  
Her voice is tight and choked when she speaks to me. 

"You don't owe me anything. It's only by the grace of God  
that you're sitting here right now! What I did, the decisions  
I made, could have killed you, Mulder. They nearly did." 

Oh, Scully. You *saved* me. Your motives were purely  
selfless. How many times have I put you in danger, risked  
your life for my own selfish reasons? Again and again. I  
have nearly lost you more times than I care to remember,  
all in the name of my quest. And now you sit here and  
doubt your decisions? Decisions that were based solely on  
what was best for me? I've put you through so much,  
Scully. So much. I reach up and run my fingers through  
her hair, parting the silky crop that covers the scar on her  
neck. A scar that exists because of me, because of the X -  
Files. 

"Me too," is all I can manage at the moment. This time she  
gambled with my life, gambled against the odds and won.  
The alternative? Certain death. 

Scully turns her head and stares at me. Her expression is  
both puzzled and incredulous. She holds my gaze as if  
trying to understand exactly what I mean. I find it  
fascinating that she has to think quite so hard. My lips curl  
as I answer her. "Long shots. It's what the X-Files is all  
about." 

She loses the frown and replaces it with a tired smile of her  
own. "That's very profound, Mulder. Where'd you hear  
that?" 

I slide further down in the bed and nuzzle my head into her  
shoulder. "A very reliable source. The only one I trust." I  
wonder if she hears me as my eyes slip shut and a peaceful  
sleep claims me.  
  
  


******************  
Scully  
******************  
  


Twelve hours later and I’m staring in disbelief at another  
set of x-rays. This time, however, my incredulity is mixed  
with joy and not horror. The second deep suctioning did an  
admirable job of clearing away dead larvae and ridding  
Mulder’s lungs of debris. He won’t be running anytime  
soon, and he’s got a lingering cough from the trauma to his  
lungs and trachea, but he’s already breathing without  
assistance. 

“Your partner is an incredibly lucky guy. Lots of rest, the  
right medication, and some respiratory therapy and he  
should make a full recovery.” McManus shakes his head  
with a wry grin. “With your permission I’d like to write this  
one up for the journals – if I can get anyone to take me  
seriously enough to look at the data.” 

I shrug. “Go right ahead, though I don’t think it’s my  
permission you need to worry about. I have a feeling  
Morley Tobacco will fight to keep this quiet.” 

I turn to leave, anxious to get back to Mulder, but  
McManus stops me with a hand on my arm. “Agent Scully,  
I just want to say…” He stops, fumbles with the chart in his  
hands, and shuffles his feet. “I know we’ve had our  
differences of opinion about your partner’s treatment. I  
hope you know my opposition was based solely on concern  
for Agent Mulder’s health and not mistrust of your  
credentials as a physician. You did a hell of a job, and your  
partner owes you his life.” 

I acknowledge his affirmation externally, yet can’t seem to  
accept it internally. About four o’clock this morning  
Skinner banished me to the couch in the nurses’ lounge,  
vowing to call immediately if any complications arose. For  
three hours I drifted from one nightmare to the next, slight  
variations on a theme that inevitably ended with me  
administering an injection that stopped Mulder’s heart.  
Permanently. 

Now I’m even taking on Mulder’s propensity for guilt. 

I know Mulder is alive at this moment because I took a  
risk, just as surely as I know Mulder would have approved  
of my actions -- had he been able. What haunts me is how  
terribly close those actions came to killing rather than  
curing him. If Weaver hadn’t been the key, if Skinner  
hadn’t located Weaver in time, if the nicotine had poisoned  
Mulder beyond resuscitation… 

I held Mulder’s life in my hands and made choices that  
could just as easily have ended it. A shiver runs down my  
spine and I pause outside Mulder’s door, one hand propped  
on the jamb, to steady my nerves. There was a sound,  
practical reason I chose pathology all those years ago. I’m  
not cut out for playing God. 

Mulder is sitting up in bed, thumbing the remote with  
rapid-fire precision and scowling at the meager daytime  
television offerings. His darkened eyes and the taut skin  
over his jaw and cheekbones signal a fatigue that is at odds  
with the pointless channel surfing and restless shifting of  
arms and legs. Tired as he is, both the nicotine and the  
medications to ease his breathing have the equivalent effect  
of dropping speed. He’s jittery and irritable, his throat is  
raw from the medical procedures, and his chest aches each  
time he tries to draw a deep breath. The result? Mulder at  
his worst, the patient from hell. He’s darn lucky that he’s  
cute or I think the nurses would have euthanized him by  
now. 

His expression transforms when I step through the  
doorway, pleasure and affection replacing bored  
indifference. I can’t help the warmth that floods me or the  
unbridled smile that takes over my mouth. 

“Hey, Scully,” he greets me. 

Well, he tries. What actually leaves his throat is a hoarse,  
grating mutation of his normally mellow voice,  
accompanied by a wince. 

“No talking, remember? Just whisper,” I chide gently.  
“Anything good on?” 

It’s not as if I couldn’t read the answer to that question in  
the sour twist of his lips, but Mulder – being Mulder – feels  
the need to elaborate. 

“This place is a speed bump in the road of life, Scully,” he  
whines thinly. “They don’t even have cable.” 

“No Cartoon Network, huh? I’ll report them to the AMA,”  
I respond dryly. “Been stuck watching soap operas?” 

His pout deepens. “Worse. Judge Judy marathon.” 

I can’t catch the giggle before it sneaks past my lips but it’s  
worth the delight on Mulder’s face. He loves making me  
laugh; I love making him work for it. He slides to the right  
and pats the mattress invitingly, unrepentant when I raise  
an eyebrow in disapproval. 

“Mulder, I am not getting in bed with you.” 

“Chair’s hard as a rock,” he argues whispily. 

“Skinner said he’d stop by this afternoon, he could walk in  
any minute,” I counter, but I let him snag my hand and pull  
me closer. 

“Skinner already knows, I heard he won the pool,” Mulder  
smirks. 

“What p… Never mind, I don’t want to know.” My right  
hip balances on the edge of the mattress but my left foot  
remains anchored to the tile. “Even if he knows, that  
doesn’t mean we have to flaunt it.” 

“Nothing to flaunt,” Mulder rasps, and somehow my  
backside is now planted firmly on the bed, one traitorous  
leg stretched cozily along his. “There’s a blanket and a  
sheet between us.” 

The solid warmth of his body seduces Dana, but Agent  
Scully musters one more token protest. “A nurse will need  
to check your vitals…” 

“Not if you get there first.” 

The man has no voice, yet he can still leer. Why should I be  
surprised? 

Sighing, I admit defeat and settle more comfortably into the  
bed. The heart monitor’s regular beep, though a little fast,  
comforts me, and each wheezy breath is music to my ears.  
Mulder fidgets for several minutes before finally quieting  
and the tension in his body slowly dissipates. I try to  
remain still, hoping he’ll find his way to sleep. 

“Scully?” Not drowsy, but calm – even serene. 

“Yes, Mulder?” 

“Thank you.” 

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut and try to pretend ignorance.  
“I’m just staying here for a little while, Mulder, so don’t  
get used to it.” 

His fingers tighten on mine and I know that somehow,  
instinctively, he understands what I’m trying to do, and  
why. And, as always, he refuses to leave me my illusions. 

“I owe you. Big time.” 

I shake my head vehemently. Tears clog the back of my  
throat so that my reply sounds as strangled as Mulder’s. 

“You don’t owe me anything. It’s only by the grace of God  
that you’re sitting here right now! What I did, the decisions  
I made, could have killed you, Mulder. They nearly did.” 

His hand reaches up to comb through my hair in what I  
mistake for a soothing gesture until I feel his fingertips  
trace the tiny scar at the base of my neck. I freeze,  
mesmerized. 

“Me too.” 

I turn and stare into his eyes, bright sparks of life in a wan  
face. One corner of his mouth turns up. “Long shots. It’s  
what the X-Files are all about.” 

Deep inside me, a wound begins to heal and I manage a  
bleary smile. “That’s very profound, Mulder. Where’d you  
hear that?” 

He wriggles down and drops his head onto my shoulder  
with a blissful sigh. “Very reliable source. The only one I  
trust,” he murmurs sleepily. 

That’s good enough for me.  
  



End file.
